As our family grew during the mid and late 40s, both Mother and Dad had to work. All of the children were at St. Augustine Catholic School, in Memphis, TN. Tuition was high, two dollars a month for elementary level and three dollars a month for high school. With six children in classes from grades one through eight, tuition for the gaggle would have been twelve to fourteen dollars per month.
Dad worked at The American Finishing Company, standing over a boiling pot dying fabrics. He was a strong union man and made $32.00 per week and was paid bi-weekly.
I had a paper route, selling the Memphis World. Two issues a week with a Tuesday edition for five cents and Friday topping out at six cents. Thus, at the end of the week, I would make the rounds and collect eleven cents from each customer. Of this amount, six cents went to the publisher and five cents to me. Occasionally I would hear the familiar refrain, “I’m sorry, I just can’t quite make it this week. Can I double up next Friday? If I didn’t have to carry too many over to the next week, it was a forced savings. I had approximately 30 customers, so this could give me about $1.50 per week.
For a while, on Saturdays I would go to an old woman’s house to vacuum her floors and help clean around the place. For that, I would get a quarter. One week, I tried using the carpet sweeper for the first time. Instead of moving forward with it and picking up dust, I went backwards and laid a wide streak of detritus down the middle of the carpet. I was fired. Fortunately, no one knew I had the job so there was no need to tell anyone about it. The extra quarter I used for movies during the middle of the week. A twelve cent movie, nickel for popcorn and another for a Baby Ruth was my entry into the world of Mario Lanza, Kathryn Grayson, Gordon McCrea, Jane Powell and all the great musical singers of the day.
Mother was, at this time, probably thirty years old. She had two jobs. At one she cleaned the customer area at Fitzgerald Furniture Store for $12.00 per week. Afterward she went to the home of Miz. Ramey and Miz. Clyde. We never knew how much they paid because, as a very private and proud person, Mother didn’t discuss such things. In all probability, Dad didn’t know how much she made either. Nor would he have asked.
Often the mistresses of the Ramey-Clyde manor would announce a little something for Lee and her kids. This was generally a care package of left over foods. One found parts of cold cornbread and biscuits, chicken necks and thigh parts, neck bones and greens, greens, and for the children to grow on, greens. Mistresses would leave the package on the table at the back door, where Mother would see it as she exited out back. She would take the package, thank the mistrisses and walk down the six steps to the streets and start the long walk home. There was no bus that was convenient in the area, and it cost seven cents for the bus fare, so she saved the money and walked.
On arrival home, she would place the package on the kitchen table and leave it. Whoever was responsible for cooking for the week was responsible for it. The rule of the house:
Whatever was prepared by whoever had the responsibility for food preparation for the week would be eaten.
No matter the quality of the food or preparation, the entire family ate it.
On one occasion, Mother left the package at the house. One of the mistresses called and reminded her of it. Fearing that she might have offended the mistresses, or that she might even lose the job, she asked me to go and retrieve it. I took the long walk, ascended the back steps and waited. The door opened, and the package was presented in an extended hand that had no distinguishable face. I offered a polite , “Thank you.” I didn’t use a name because I could never tell them apart. They were short, white haired, pick faced, wore dresses with pinkish flowers and smelled old. I’m sure they were at least 45 or 50 at that time.I took the package and in a fast trot, turned a few corners. When saftely out of the white neighborhood, and totally out of sight, it was deposited it in the nearest garbage can. There were stray dogs in the neighborhood. They would clean it out before the next pickup.
When I arrive home, Mother was waiting. She noticed my empty hand.
"Did you get the package?” she asked.
I answered, “Yes, Mother.”
“Thank you,” she said as she touched me on the forehead.
There would be no more packages.
4 comments:
My favorite story yet!
It reminds me of a "missionary kid" I went to college with. She said people thought that their family should appreciate all discards, including used tea bags.
My reaction to this is so emotional I can't quite find the verbal comment. Did those white ladies mean well? I suppose so. But oh, such ignorance! Yet from this distance it's easy to pass judgment.
Now your mother begins to emerge in your stories.
To Petrea,
I think the women genuinely meant well in the context of their universe in the 1940s and 50s. My mother was dealing with survival, providing for her "little ones", as she called us even in our much later years. She was also a woman with garganchuian pride and honor. I think she was able to communicate to us, in subtext, event though that word did not exist in those times, the things with which we were all dealing. I have no animus agaist the Mistresses. My concern was the comfort index of my Mother.
I think I do get that, cb3dot. Everyone was doing their best and living within the lines that were drawn for them. It's so, so hard to step outside of that.
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